


Waiting For Your Return

by Sportscandycollective



Series: Fall Greater Than He Ever Knew AU [1]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, past death of parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sportscandycollective/pseuds/Sportscandycollective
Summary: A flashback from Sportacus's childhood when his father, Íþróttaálfurinn, returned to the Elvish Islands after being gone for a long time.NOTICE: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ONTO OTHER WEBSITES.





	

Barði breathed in the salty sea air, feeling the breeze blow through his graying hair, bristling his thick beard. He turned his eyes towards the shore, smiling as the indistinct spots of colors grew more clear, forming into patches of wildflowers and fields of green. He leaned against the bannister of the ship, eying the approaching docks. He had been out all day, doing his job as one of the village’s best fishermen. He glanced over at his catch. Piles of silver ocean fish flopped weakly against the wooden deck, their wide eyes looking unfocused at the sky. He chuckled; that day had been especially bountiful. He was quite pleased with his catch.  
As he steered his boat past the dock, tossing the tether rope around one of the posts, he clambered off his old wooden sloop, tightly tying it to the aged boardwalk. He sighed contently, feeling the mid-summer sun warm his aging body and soothe his weary muscles. Stepping carefully back onto his ship, he hoisted the net of fish over his shoulder, dumping the load into three wooden barrels. He sealed them shut before lifting them onto the dock.  
Once he moved the last barrel to the safety of the shore, he stepped back onto the dock, looking around at the seashore. Seagulls squawked and cried above him, and the waves lapped against the barnacle covered supports. As he looked back towards the sea, the sight of a young boy caught his attention. He sat precariously atop one of the support poles, his messy blonde hair shining in the sun. He wore a long, sky blue tunic, fitting around his waist with a silver sash, and a pair of mossy green pants underneath. Covering his feet were a pair of far too big gray boots.  
Barði smiled. He recognized the young boy immediately.  
“Ahoy, Magnus!” he called.

Magnus turned around, a wide smile crossing his face as he saw who was calling him. “Ahoy, Barði!” he called back.  
Barði approached, casually placing a hand on an adjacent support, giving a joking smile to the boy. “You know, Magnus, if you’re trying to fish, you generally need a pole to start.” He said with a wink.  
Magnus laughed. “Barði! Come on, you know I’m not here to fish!” he said, looking at the fisherman expectantly. He tapped his heels against the aged wood as he excitedly looked at Barði. “So, did you see Pabbi’s airship today?”  
Barði furrowed his brow in thought, cycling through the events of the day and what he’d seen out at sea. Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry, Magnus. ‘Fraid I didn’t see an airship today. I’d remember it if I saw it.”  
Magnus’ face fell. His eyes drifted towards the ocean water that lapped against the shore, trying to hide his disappointment.  
Barði felt his heart ache as he saw how sad Magnus looked. He patted the boy on the back. “I’m sorry Magnus. I know you miss your father a lot.”  
Magnus sighed as he turned back towards the fisherman. “I just thought he’d come back for a visit by now. It feels like he doesn’t come home as much as he used to.” He shook his head, his gaze turning towards the horizon. “Pabbi’s busy. I know that. He’s saving the world. But I miss him so much.”  
Barði looked towards the horizon as well. He frowned, his eyes scanning the sky for any sight of Íþró’s famous airship. Nothing. He looked at the young boy once more. “Did your father say he’d be coming back?”  
Magnus shook his head. “I just thought I’d check anyways.” He admitted.  
Barði patted his head, trying to cheer Magnus back up. “Come along, it’s going to get cold soon. Besides, it’s almost dinner time.”  
Magnus shook his head once more. “I want to wait for Pabbi.”  
Barði thought about protesting, but decided against it. He could see the determination in the boy’s eyes. Nothing he said could change Magnus’ mind, he knew that at least. He nodded, turning away. “Okay, but don’t stay out too long. You’ll get cold otherwise.”  
Magnus looked back at Barði with a smile. “I promise.”  
“Okay. Hope you see your father, _ungur sjómaður_!” Barði said with a chuckle.  
Barði gave one last wave as he walked his way up the hill, occasionally turning back to look at the young boy on the docks.

Once Barði returned home, he quickly made his way to his bath, soaking for a long time in the warm and sudsy water. He sighed as the soothing scent of lavender and cinnamon filled his senses, releasing the tension in his body and warming him. Afterwards, he went to work preparing his dinner. Fish, potatoes, and a glass of wine. A perfect meal post fishing. He relished his meal, eating until he felt satisfied.  
After dinner, he exited his home, carrying an old wooden pipe in his hands. As he settled into his favorite rocking chair, he carefully lit a small amount of tobacco in its chamber. He breathed in the fragrant and smooth smoke, blowing small streams of smoke as he rested against the chair, rocking gently back and forth. He turned his eyes towards the setting sun, drinking in the beautiful view. He blew a few more puffs of smoke, coughing slightly as he breathed in one gulp too quickly. He cleared his throat before settling back, putting out his pipe as he drifted off to sleep.

When Barði awoke, the evening sky had left in favor of the starry night. A cool breeze brushed against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Carefully, the old fisherman lifted himself onto his feet, preparing to walk back inside. He opened the door, but before he could go inside, he stopped at the sounds of approaching footsteps. He whirled around, spotting the late-night walker passing by his lawn.  
Dressed in elegant silver robes adorned in gold, his hair long and trailing down his back, was Fylkir, one of the many members of the elven council. He paid no attention to Barði, his eyes turned down towards the bundle in his arms.  
“Evening, Fylkir.” Barði greeted.  
Fylkir paused, slowly turning to address Barði. He gave a solemn nod, and it was then that Barði saw little Magnus passed out in the councilman’s arms.  
Barði frowned and shook his head. “Ah, Magnus. He promised me he wouldn’t stay out late.”  
“Waiting for Íþróttaálfurinn, I presume?” said Fylkir.  
Barði nodded. “The poor boy was heartbroken when I said I hadn’t seen his airship.”  
Fylkir sighed and shook his head, looking disapprovingly at the slumbering child.  
“Don’t get mad at him, Fylkir. After everything he’s gone through in the last year, you can’t blame him for missing his father as much as he does.” Barði said quietly.  
“He knows that if Íþróttaálfurinn is due to return home, he sends a message first. We’ve received no such message, so he should know he’s not coming back yet.” Fylkir said matter-of-factly.  
Barði glared at the councilman. “Have a heart, Fylkir. He needs his father! Besides, he’s right about one thing. It’s been months since Íþró last stopped by, and he used to visit every month.” His expression softened. “Fylkir, promise me the next time that Íþró visits, that you’ll talk to him. His son needs him more than ever, now that his mother’s gone.”  
Fylkir nodded. “Very well, I will speak with Íþróttaálfurinn once he returns. In the meantime, I need to return Magnus to his home. Goodnight, Barði.” He said, before turning and walking away with Magnus still curled up in his arms.  
“Goodnight, Fylkir.” Barði responded, before slowly walking back inside.

\--

Barði awoke early the next morning. He rubbed his eyes groggily, slowly lifting himself up and out of bed. He quickly got himself dressed before preparing himself a light breakfast of bread and pieces of fruit. He packed it into a cloth sack and twisted it shut with a piece of twine. He whistled a happy tune to himself as he walked out his front door, breathing in the sweet and fresh morning air. The sun had just barely begun to stretch its beams across the horizon, staining the sky in oranges and pinks. The clouds had taken on a tint of lavender, and the sea was speckled with highlights of gold. It was a perfect morning.  
Clambering down the stone steps towards the docks, Barði stopped as his ears turned towards the distant noise. It didn’t take him long to realize where it came from as he looked towards an adjacent dock, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. Descending from the sky was a large, tan colored airship, its hull a slightly dirty silver color with a giant number “9” painted in yellow on its blimp. He watched as its pilot threw down weighted sacks and ropes, slowly dragging his dirigible down towards the earth. Barði immediately changed his plans, making a beeline towards the other dock.  
His feet skidded down the crumbly slope, spare pebbles and dirt rolling down with him as he slid his way to the beach. He panted once his feet hit the wooden boardwalk; he often had to remind himself he was no longer a strapping young elf, but was now an aged fisherman who had no business leaping about and skidding down treacherous slopes. He made his way over to the balloon, taking a minute to gawk at the flying wonder. He had seen it many times, but never this close. He pondered the potential of trading in his own ship for one of these flying devices. Seemed a lot more exhilarating to pilot.

He was broken from his thoughts as his ears tuned to the sound of boots meeting wood. Peeking over his shoulder, he finally spotted the illusive Íþróttaálfurinn, in all his glory. The elf stood tall, a wide smile on his face as he breathed in the fresh, ocean air. His cap, the tip of which held his sportscrystal, bobbed and bounced in the breeze, though less frantically than his mustard yellow scarf. Íþró turned, a look of pleasant surprise crossing his face once he spotted the fisherman.  
“Barði! It’s been so long! How have you been?” the elf asked warmly, lunging forward to pull the older man into a tight bearhug.  
Barði couldn’t hold back a less than manly squeak as the hero’s friendly gesture crushed him. Nevertheless, he smiled and laughed as he gave Íþró a pat on the back. The hero slowly lowered him to the ground, releasing him from his hold.  
“I’ve been the same as usual. You know me, Íþró. But the real question is, how are you? It’s been a while since you’ve returned to the homelands.” Barði asked.  
Íþró shrugged. “The world’s been needing me a lot more lately! I’ve been running from hither and yond, trying to help people in trouble!” He gave a warm smile. “Trust me, I haven’t forgotten about this place.”  
Barði smiled back. “Oh, I never thought you _forgot_ about us.” He said. His smile faded. “But, it has been quite some time. And a certain someone has been missing you dearly.”  
Íþró looked surprised. “Maggi has been missing me?”  
Barði gave the hero a look. “The boy’s been sitting at the dock each day, waiting for your airship. Fylkir’s had to fetch him each night to bring him home.”  
Íþró bit his lip. “I never realized…” he said to himself. He looked back at his friend with an enthusiastic grin. “Then I can’t waste any time! My Maggi is waiting for me, and I won’t keep him waiting any longer!” He did the signature move quickly before leaping into a series of handsprings and flips towards the stairs.  
Barði sped after the hero. Or at least, sped after him as quickly as he could. “Íþró, wait! We need to talk! Why haven’t you been returning as often as you used to? Do you need to talk?” asked Barði, quickly running out of breath.  
Íþró only stopped long enough to waggle his finger at his friend. “Come on now, Barði, my little boy is waiting! We can talk history another time! Good luck with the fishing!” he said hurriedly, before turning and sprinting up the hill.  
Barði prepared to protest, but before he could say another word his friend had vanished over the top of the hill. He sighed and shook his head. He then set forth for his boat, getting ready for another day of fishing.

\--

Containing his excitement, Íþró carefully swung the door to his house open. He breathed in the familiar scent of his home: faint cedar mixing in with freshly picked flowers and pine. He grinned; he’d been away from home for far too long. He strode across the wooden floor, taking in the fact that _he was home_. Remembering his objective, Íþró crept towards the hallway, only pausing briefly to glance at a photo on the fireplace mantle. Shaking his head, the hero continued to sneak down the hall, approaching the door at the very end of the hallway.  
He gently pushed the door open, peering inside. Magnus was still curled up in his little bed, his hands clasped firmly around the corner of his blanket. Íþró smiled affectionately. He snuck his way inside, creeping over towards his son’s bed. He crouched down beside the sleeping child, reaching over and gently shaking Magnus’ shoulder.  
Magnus mumbled something unintelligible, responding by simply shifting his sleeping position.  
Íþró chuckled, before shaking his son once more. “Maggi, little Maggi. _Góðan daginn, litla_.”  
Groggily, Magnus opened a single eye, his other eye joining as he suddenly realized who was waking him up. He shot up into a sitting position, his expression one of surprise and joy.  
“Pabbi!” Magnus cried, throwing his arms around his father as he gave him a hug.  
Íþró laughed as he returned the hug, embracing his little boy. He pulled away to look at his son. “Why Maggi, you’ve grown! You were only up to here the last time I saw you!” he said cheekily.  
Magnus beamed with pride as he struck a superhero pose, his hands on his waist. “I’ve been training just like you, Pabbi! I’ve been eating my sportscandy and exercising!”  
“I can tell! You’re growing like a tree, and I bet you’re as strong as one now!” Íþró said proudly, before pulling his son in for another hug.

Magnus held his father close, hugging him tightly. He sighed happily. “I really missed you, Pabbi.” He said quietly.  
Íþró gave his son a warm smile. “I’ve missed you too, _litla_. It’s been too long.” He said with a hint of sadness. The hero lifted his son up and out of his bed, Magnus laughing and giggling as he was swung up into the air. Íþró perched his son up against his chest, an arm around his back for support. He grinned at his little boy. “But, the good news is that we’ve got all of today to do whatever you want! So, Maggi, what do you want to do?”  
Magnus’ stomach gurgled at that moment, as if to answer Íþró’s question. Magnus looked up at his father. “Breakfast!”  
Íþró laughed. “But _what_ for breakfast?”  
Magnus thought a moment, before his face lit up from an idea. He grinned at his fathr. “Pabbi’s pancakes! We need to make pancakes!”  
“Pancakes?” the hero said quizzically. He gave a cheeky smile to his son. “Are you sure you didn’t mean waffles? Or perhaps some scrambled eggs?”  
Magnus shook his head and laughed. “Nooo, pabbi! Pancakes! Your pancakes!”  
“Ohhh, _my_ pancakes!” Íþró exclaimed. He gave a gentle poke at his son’s nose. “Just checking.” He said jokingly.  
Magnus giggled.  
Íþró kissed his son’s forehead before setting him down on the floor. “Hurry along then. We need to go to the market and get the things for pancakes!”  
Magnus nodded and ran towards his closet, Íþró stepping out to gather a basket and coin pouch.

Closing the door behind him, Íþró made his way towards the footpath, with Magnus trailing behind him at his heels, carrying a large empty basket in his tiny hands. The two elves walked leisurely along the pathway, enjoying the sounds of the morning birds and stopping to smell the morning glories. Occasionally, Íþró would have to stop to chase after Magnus, usually after his son became distracted by a colorful bug or a skittish bunny rabbit stirring up the grass. These chases would always end with Íþró scooping Magnus up into his arms and carrying him back towards the road.  
“Come on, _litla_! You keep getting distracted, and we won’t be able to make my pancakes! It’ll be lunchtime, and we can’t have pancakes for lunch!” the hero said with a laugh.  
“But Fylkir makes me pancakes for lunch sometimes!” Magnus responded.  
“And how are Fylkir’s pancakes?” asked Íþró.  
Magnus scrunched his nose. “They’re yucky. He burns them.”  
“Exactly. That’s what happens when you make pancakes after breakfast. The spirits of the earth curse your stovetop, and burn all your food.” Íþró said jokingly.  
The elf hero then gently placed his son back down on the ground and, now refocused, made their way towards the marketplace.

The markets, even at this early hour, were already bustling with energy and people. Íþró and Magnus passed by several stalls surrounded by people inspecting and judging their wares. Sweet smelling honey was sold to a tall elf who, for whatever reason, needed twelve jars of the amber liquid. The butcher’s stand was robust with noise, supplied by the butcher himself arguing intensely with one customer over his prices.  
“You want HOW MUCH for this chicken?” asked the customer.  
The butcher tapped his counter impatiently. “That chicken is as plump as it gets! It’s fifteen gold coins, and I won’t take anything lower!”  
Íþró instinctually led Magnus away from one of the shadier booths, ran by a slimy looking character decked in a tattered hood. He would beckon to the crowds, claiming to be able to tell their fortunes and create love potions.  
“Promise me son, that you’ll never take the word of fortune tellers. What’s most important is to live in the present, to make the future you desire. Remember that, okay?” Íþró said quietly to his son.  
Magnus nodded. “I promise, Pabbi.”  
Finally, the two approached the stand they were looking for. A rough looking elf was manning the tent, his hands and arms covered in battle scars and bruises. A faint smile crossed his face as he saw the hero approach his shop.  
“Ah! Íþróttaálfurinn! You’ve finally returned to the islands, I see? Good to see you!” said the elf, extending his hand out towards the hero.  
Íþró took the elf’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “It’s good to see you too, Dreki. You look well.”  
Dreki chuckled, brushing some of his messy, ash brown hair away from his face. “Ah, still a liar aren’t you? You don’t have to flatter an old coot like me.” He said with a harsh laugh.  
Íþró shook his head and laughed. “Difficult as always, huh?”  
“You know me well.” Dreki answered with a smirk. He placed his hands on the counter. “So, what is it you need? Cheese? Butter? Best dairy in all the islands right here!”  
“We’re making pancakes so butter and milk please.” Íþró said.  
Dreki nodded. “Coming right up!” He turned around, looking towards the slit in the tent. “Boy! Get me a jug of milk, and hurry up!” he barked.

A boy emerged from behind the tent, a skinny kid roughly Magnus’ age. He lugged the gigantic jug of milk across the ground, being careful not to run over his toes. Íþró’s smile faded as he noted the boy’s condition. His clothes were tattered and old, and he seemed to be lacking shoes. More concerning, however, was the large, purpling bruise on the side of his cheek. Íþró frowned, repressing the growing anger in his heart.  
The young boy finally heaved the jug over to his father, Dreki quickly lifting the jug onto the counter. He frowned at his son. “Where’s the butter, boy? Íþróttaálfurinn needs butter too!”  
His eyes widened. “B-Butter! Right, I’ll get that.” He quickly turned around, speedily heading outside the tent.  
Dreki shook his head, replacing his scowl with a smile. “Apologies, Íþró! Sometimes my son can be a little slow.”  
Íþró forced a casual smile. “It’s okay Dreki, we’re in no rush.”  
Dreki, noticing the uneasiness in Íþró’s reply, decided to ignore the hero’s false casualness in favor of leaning over the counter, smiling at Magnus.  
“Bet you’re excited to have your father home, huh?” he said.  
Magnus nodded excitedly. “Yeah!”  
“What are you two planning to do today?”  
Magnus paused, thinking for a minute. He looked up sheepishly. “I don’t know yet.” He admitted.  
Íþró chuckled and mussed up his son’s hair. “We’ll play it by ear. First things first, we need to make breakfast.”  
“An important meal, one not to be missed.” Dreki added with a thin smile. He turned back towards the slit in the tent. “Boy! Move it! Where’s that butter?” he yelled, yelling loudly enough for Magnus to be startled. Íþró gently pressed his son’s head against his thigh, in a semi-comforting gesture.  
 The boy hastily ran towards the counter, carefully placing the sticks of butter on top. Dreki only gave him a unsmiling nod, resulting in him backing away and through the tent.  
Dreki then redirected his attention to Íþró, giving him a warm smile. “Don’t worry about payment, friend. This is all on the house! Call it a welcome home present.”  
Íþró was stunned. “N-No, Dreki, you shouldn’t! Here, I’ve got the coins already.”  
Dreki shook his head. “Nope. Not going to take it. This stuff here is free, no room for negotiation.” He said jokingly.  
Íþró laughed. “Alright then! Thanks, Dreki! Have a good day.”  
He waved at Dreki one last time before tossing the milk jug under his arm, allowing Magnus to carry the butter in his basket, and turning away with his son following closely.

Íþró pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with domestic issues when he returned home, but this was too important to ignore. He soon spotted Fylkir at the vegetable stand.  
“Magnus, here. Take these coins and go buy yourself something you’d like. I’ll be right back.” Said Íþró, flashing a warm smile to his son.  
Magnus’ eyes twinkled as he was handed the shiny currency. “Thanks, Pabbi!” he said, before rushing off into the flood of stands.  
Íþró walked over towards the vegetables, tapping Fylkir on the shoulder. The other elf turned without a hint of surprise on his face.  
“Morning, Íþróttaálfurinn. What may I do for you?” Fylkir said coolly.  
“You can just call me Íþró, Fylkir. Everyone else already calls me that, and it’s less of a mouth full.” Said Íþró with a grin. His smile quickly vanished. “Look, we need to talk about Dreki. I think he might be beating his son and someone needs to look into it.”  
Fylkir furrowed his brow. “Hmm, very well. The council will send some guards to investigate. That is most certainly unacceptable.”  
“And you’ll do it quickly? For the boy's sake?”  
Fylkir nodded. “Of course. This is a priority issue.”  
Íþró grinned and patted the elf on the back. “Thank you! I knew I could count on you!” he said, turning away to find his son.  
  
“Íþróttaálfurinn.” Said Fylkir sternly, grabbing onto the hero’s shoulder. “We need to talk about something else as well.”  
Íþró seemed surprised. “Oh? About what?”  
“Íþróttaálfurinn, we have all noticed that your visits home have become increasingly infrequent.” Said Fylkir.  
Íþró laughed and shook his head. “Let me guess, Barði asked you to do this? That man, he worries so much. Great friend, but a worrywart.”  
“He worries with good reason.” Fylkir said more seriously. He sighed. “Íþróttaálfurinn, we all understand that you’re going through some very tough times.”  
“Nothing I can’t handle!” replied Íþró with a wavering tone of jovialness.  
Fylkir frowned. “Maybe you can, but you’re not handling it well. You can’t just avoid the islands to deal with your grief, Íþró. Not returning home won’t help you heal from losing Bríana.”  
Íþró’s smile vanished at the sound of his wife’s name.  
Fylkir gave a more sympathetic look towards the hero. “Íþró, listen. We all are saddened by the loss of Bríana. She was a marvelous woman, and a wonderful mother. You have every right to grieve. But what you’re doing? Avoiding home and only coming back sporadically? It’s hurting the people you care about. It’s hurting your son.”  
Íþró looked down, his mouth locked in a frown. He shook his head. “Little Maggi seemed to be taking it well though. Each time I saw him, he didn’t seem to be having any problems. Even now he seems okay.”  
Fylkir sighed exasperatedly. “Your son sits at the docks each day waiting for you. He waits until he passes out on the boardwalk. I’ve had to fetch him countless times to ensure he’s returned home safely.”  
“That’s what Barði told me. I’m so sorry, Fylkir.” Said Íþró apologetically.  
Fylkir looked Íþró in the eyes. “He needs his father more than ever right now. You’ve got to be honest with him with how you feel. Both for his sake and yours.”  
Íþró sighed, pausing before finally nodding in assent. “You’re right. I do need to talk to him. I’ll do that tonight.”  
Fylkir stood back up straight. “Very good. See to it that you do.”  
“Thanks, Fylkir.” Íþró said quickly, before turning and jogging away.

Íþró sighed, collecting his thoughts and pushing back the building tears as he glanced around the marketplace, looking for his son. Occasionally he stopped to greet a passerby and to nicely wave off a pushier seller. All the while, he thought about when and how he’d bring up the rather delicate subject to his son. After so much silence on the topic, how do you talk about the loss of his mother/your wife? This wasn’t in his hero training.  
Finally, he spotted Magnus, who was chatting with the kindly old woman who ran the flower stand. Seeing his father, Magnus ran over, carefully clutching onto the bundle of flowers in his arms. Íþró’s eyes widened as he glanced over the veritable meadow in Magnus’ arms, a collection of Harebells, Forget-Me-Nots, violets, orchids, and azaleas. The smell was lovely and fragrant.  
“I must admit, Maggi, I never thought you’d buy flowers! What are they for?” asked Íþró.  
Magnus, growing a little awkward, simply shrugged. “I guess I like how they smell!”  
Íþró’s smile faded as his son turned towards the road home, gesturing with his head for his father to follow. Íþró pushed his worries aside for the time being. There were pancakes to be made.

\--

The once pristine and nearly untouched kitchen soon became filled with noise and laughter as Íþró teached Magnus the proper way to whisk the wet ingredients.  
“Don’t mix too much! We still want some air by the end!” Íþró said gently.  
Magnus nodded, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he adjusting his mixing style.  
Íþró sifted the flour, baking powder, and salt, waiting for Magnus to pour in the liquid mixture. With all the ingredients accounted for, Íþró quickly mixed up the batter, creating a thick and lumpy solution. He poured a few dollops of batter onto the hot pan before helping his son leap onto the kitchen counter to watch. The batter sizzled and bubbles formed on its edges.  
“How do you know when the pancakes are ready?” asked Magnus.  
Íþró smiled and tapped the tip of his nose. “Magic.” He said cheekily.  
Giving the pancakes another minute, Íþró then flipped them, revealing their golden-brown sides, perfectly cooked. Magnus was amazed at how lovely they all looked. He sniffed the air eagerly.  
“Better than Fylkir’s doorstops?” Íþró asked jokingly.  
Magnus nodded. He quirked his head to the side. “How come you’re so good at making them?”  
“Because unlike Fylkir, I only make pancakes at breakfast time. The spirits of the Earth reward me with above average pancake skills.”  
“A very useful skill!” Magnus exclaimed.  
Íþró laughed loudly. “The most important skill!” he said, serving the pancakes onto a plate.

Sitting down at the table, Íþró and Magnus tucked into their pancakes, forking pieces of fluffy pancake into their mouths. Magnus hummed happily at the sweet, airy taste on his tongue, eagerly spooning more helpings of strawberries and blueberries onto his stack. Íþró, feeling more relaxed and content than he had in months, watched his son dine on the breakfast dish with relish. Relatively, he more slowly ate his way through his own stack.  
As he finished his second pancake, a thought crossed Íþró’s mind.  
“Maggi, where are the flowers you got today? Did you put them in a vase?” he asked.  
Magnus paused, his eyes widening briefly. “Umm, y-yes. They’re in my room.”  
Íþró raised an eyebrow. “All those flowers for just your room? You must’ve gotten near three vases full of flowers.”  
“I like the smell a lot.” Magnus stammered. He never was a good liar, and Íþró knew this.  
Íþró considered pressing for the truth, until he saw how his son kept his eyes down towards his plate, hyper-focusing on his plate of pancakes. Perhaps it’d be better to wait for the time being; wait until Magnus was feeling more comfortable discussing whatever he was thinking. Íþró had an inkling of an idea as to what the flowers were about; his mother had loved having fresh flowers in the house at all times. But for the moment, it was important to just spend some quality time together.  
Wiping his mouth off on a napkin, Íþró stood up with a smile. “Well, _litla_ , what do you want to do today? Other than eat mountains of pancakes?” he asked with a goofy grin.  
Magnus, seemingly relieved at the switch in subject, smiled back at his father. “Let’s play games!” he said, his mouth stained pink with strawberry juice.  
Íþró gave an affectionate chuckled before leaning down, wiping his son’s mouth clean of strawberry. “Very well! Then let’s hurry and clean up! We can play all the games you want afterwards!”  
Magnus bounced out of his seat and bounded towards the kitchen, his dish in his hands. Íþró followed behind, carrying the bulk of the dishes, considering when and how to talk to Magnus about the subject later.

\--

The rest of their day was filled with various games and activities. The father and son duo started off with games of leap frog and tag, Íþró holding back slightly on occasion to give his son a good chance at winning. Even so, he found himself often surprised at just how nimble and strong little Maggi had grown, completing a double backflip on the uneven terrain of their house’s yard.  
“ _Litla_! When did you learn to do that?” Íþró asked, astonished.  
Magnus beamed with pride. “I learned it watching you!”  
Íþró couldn’t have been more proud of his son in that moment. His little boy had really been practicing. He wondered how long it took Magnus to learn a trick like that, especially with no guidance.  
After a couple more games of hide and seek and warriors (Magnus played the brave knight defending his kingdom from Íþró, the giant and dastardly villain), the two made their way to the fishing hole, setting their poles up to catch dinner. Magnus screwed his nose at the idea of fish for dinner.  
“Maggi, fish is very good for you! You need it to grow strong, and it keeps your heart healthy!” Íþró said coaxingly, slapping his chest for emphasis.  
Magnus stuck out his tongue. “But fish smells so stinky!”  
Íþró shrugged. “That’s true, but you haven’t had _my_ fish have you? You’ll change your mind after one taste of my fish recipe.”  
“But you never actually _cook_ the fish.” Magnus replied.  
Íþró bit his lip. “ _Touché._ You got me there.” He thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll come up with something that’ll make it taste good, and it’s cooked!”  
Before Magnus could respond, he was nearly thrown into the creek by the tug at his pole. Íþró leapt onto his feet, grabbing his son before he was pulled into the water.  
“Keep fighting, _litla_! You’ve got this!” he said supportively.  
“I won’t give up, Pabbi!” Magnus said determinedly.  
Several minutes later, Magnus had landed a monstrous trout. Íþró proudly gave his son a hug, watching as the fish’s scales glistened in the sun, its body flopping around on the dry land.

After a few more games and more fish caught, Íþró and Magnus made their ways home. Íþró quickly gutted and cleaned the fish, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun on his back. With the fresh fish filet in his hands, Íþró made swift work with grilling the trout meat, the savory smell filling the air. Along with a side of roasted broccoli, Íþró and Magnus had quite the feast for dinner.  
“Have I changed your mind on fish, Maggi?” asked Íþró,  
Magnus excitedly nodded. “I like fish!”  
Íþró laughed. “Good! It’s very good for you!”  
Before long, it was time to clean up. As Íþró cleaned the dishes and grill, he looked over towards Magnus. He was surprised to see Magnus still sitting in the living room, his eyes trained upon the mantle. He had just told him to get ready for his bath; why was he still out here?  
“Maggi? Is everything okay? Why aren’t you in the bath ye –“Íþró said, before stopping.  
His eyes trailed up the mantle, seeing what Magnus was looking at. It was the photo from earlier. Pictured was a newly born Magnus, still wrapped in swaddling clothes, being cradled in the arms of his mother, her smile warm and full of joy. Íþróttaálfurinn was also in the picture, his arm around his wife, his eyes turned towards his newborn son.  
Íþró eyes turned down towards his son, still sitting on the floor, his eyes fixed on the picture.  
“Maggi?” asked Íþró,  
Magnus focus snapped over to his father. He stood up. “Sorry, Pabbi. I’ll go get ready for bed.” He said, turning towards the hallway.  
Íþró stepped forward, gently grabbing his son’s shoulder. “Maggi.”  
Magnus stopped and turned towards his father. Íþró could see him fighting back tears.  
“I’m okay, Pabbi.” Magnus mumbled, his eyes turned away from his father.  
“Please Maggi, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Íþró said, trying not to beg.  
Magnus didn’t respond.  
Íþró sighed as he smooth the back of his head. He shook his head. “Alright. Change of plans, son. Go get your flowers and meet me outside. We need to go somewhere tonight.”  
Magnus felt confused, but he shook off the feelings as he ran towards his room.

A few minutes later, Magnus joined his father outside. Íþró raised an eyebrow as he eyed the bundle of flowers in his son’s arms. It was much smaller than the near meadow he carried earlier.  
“Where are the rest of the flowers?” he asked.  
Magnus took a minute to answer, his eyes turned down guiltily. “I’m saving them for later.”  
Íþró was confused. “Later?”  
Magnus didn’t respond, his little hands grasping at the flowers tightly.  
Íþró sighed tiredly. He looked up towards the footpath. “Let’s go, it’s a bit of a walk.”  
Lighting a lantern, the two began their trek up the hills and away from the village. Íþró walked slowly, making sure his son kept close. This trail wasn’t the best maintained, and with how steep it could be they’d have to be careful. As they continued along, their pathway partially illuminated by their lantern and a few stray fireflies, Íþró could feel a heaviness settle itself in his chest. It had been so long since he traversed this trail. A year ago, to be exact. The events of that day started to play in his head. The multitudes of fellow elves, dressed in grays and black, holding lit candles in their hands. The lowly stated, ancient words of the elder who directed the funeral. The near sickening scent of incense and myrrh. The burning pyre. The flames that licked the sky and the plumes of smoke and ash that filled the air. It was like he was there again. His eyes watered as he remembered the harsh and uncomfortably stinging feeling of the fire’s smoke. Remembering where and when he was, however, he shook his head, clearing his eyes of the tears. They were there.

Dotting the flat plains that lay hidden behind the surrounding hills were multiple stone structures, built by the elves by laying multiple round and flat rocks on top of each other. The air brushed through the long grasses and untamed wildflowers, rustling the grassy flats that surrounded each stone pillar. Carefully, Íþró and Magnus descended the stone staircase, built haphazardly into the hillside, the stone steps peeking out from the cleared dirt. As they reached the bottom, they both slowly walked past the rows of stone markers. Many of the markers were old looking, their stones dirty and moss-covered, the names engraved upon their surfaces near unreadable. A couple others looked brand new, their plots still freshly cleared of grass, with some ash still mixed in with the soil, the engraved names readily legible. Some markers were recently visited, made clear from the still fresh flowers laid at their bases, the smooth stones kept polished and clean of debris and plant growth. Íþró and Magnus continued to walk past these stone monuments, Magnus occasionally stopping to lay a blossom at some of the more dilapidated graves. Íþró breathed in the air, catching the faint scent of lilies and orchids. He shivered. At one point he enjoyed those smells, but now they only dug up the same painful memories.  
He was stopped by accidentally running into his son, barely keeping himself from tripping over him. Íþró gathered himself, before looking ahead. They’d arrived. Standing at the end of one row, its stones well-polished and gleaming in the moonlight, was the gravesite. Magnus walked forward first, the flowers still held tightly in his arms. Íþró followed slowly behind him. His eyes focused on the piles of flowers that laid at the gravestone’s base, all in various stages of health.

A pain twinged in his heart. “Maggi, are these all yours?” Íþró asked.  
Magnus only responded with a slow nod.  
Íþró thought back to the messages he had been receiving from Fylkir. The letters about how he had to repeatedly teach Magnus about better handling his money. How he’d receive allowance and it’d be gone by the next day. He assumed that Magnus had spent it on treats and toys to play with his friends with. Now he realized where those coins were going to, at least partly.  
“How…how often do you come here?” he asked.  
Magnus looked up at his father, his eyes watering with tears. “Sometimes.” He said quietly.  
Íþró felt his heart break. He crouched down, gently wiping away a tear from his son’s face. “Maggi, I never…” he started to say.  
“I’m sorry, Pabbi. I’ve been trying to be strong like you, but I miss mamma.” Magnus confessed, his voice choked by tears. “I want her back. I want her to be here. I know she can’t be, but I still want her to. I miss her.” He said, tears rolling down his face.  
Íþró could feel his composure weaken. He gave his son a weak smile. “Oh Maggi, you are strong. You’re so much stronger than anyone I know. Missing her doesn’t make you not strong.”  
Magnus hugged his father, his tears staining Íþró’s chest plate. “B-But I still feel bad. I don’t want to miss her so much. I want to be strong, like you are.”  
Íþró returned the hug, gently smoothing his son’s head as Magnus continued to cry. Tears were building in his eyes. “Magnus, you’re the strong one. Not me. I’m not as strong as you think.” He said softly.  
Magnus looked up in confusion.  
Íþró sighed sadly, gently carrying his son over to the grave marker. Engraved in the bottom stone was one name: “Bríana”. He gently let go of Magnus, brushing away the dead flowers and stray petals. He sat on his knees for a moment, shuddering as he stared at the name engraved on the stone. Magnus looked in surprise as he spotted tears rolling down his father’s face. He had never seen his pabbi cry like that before. Not even at the funeral.  
“Pabbi?” Magnus asked worriedly.  
Íþró sniffed, turning slowly towards his son. His eyes were reddening, his face wet with tears. He shook his head. “Maggi, did you think that to be strong, you weren’t supposed to cry?”  
Magnus paused, before slowly nodding.  
More tears fell down Íþró’s face. “Maggi, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to learn that. I just didn’t want you to worry if you saw me crying.”  
Magnus slowly approached his father, sitting down on his knees as well. Slowly, he placed the flowers down by his mother’s grave. Íþró let out a choked sigh, his shaking hands carefully pulling a small candle out from his pocket. Laying it on the ground, Íþró snapped his fingers, the wick instantly burning bright with an orange-white flame.

They sat together in silence, the quiet only interrupted sporadically by a sniffle from one of them or a sputtered cry. Magnus shuffled closer to Íþró, who in turn lifted his son onto his lap, holding him close. Their focus remained on the flickering light of the candle, illuminating Bríana’s name in the encroaching darkness. The cool wind brushed their skin weakly, not chilling them but simply keeping them awake and aware.  
Magnus was first to speak. “Pabbi? What do you think of when you think of mamma?” he asked quietly.  
A sad smile crept onto Íþró’s face. He breathed in the sweet air through his nose and exhaled before answering. He looked at his son with an expression of fondness. “I think of so much when I think of her, _litla_. I remember her cunning mind and sharp wit. I remember her sweet voice and gentle heart. I remember how amazingly strong and beautiful she was. Did she ever tell you that she was a captain of the royal guard?”  
Magnus’ eyes twinkled. “No, she never did!”  
Íþró smiled and laughed. “Oh Maggi, you would’ve loved to have seen her back when she was a captain. She was well-beloved and respected by all her cadets, and she was the bravest of them all. She would’ve given her life to our people, if she were called to do so. The scars on her body proved her conviction and determination.”  
“I wondered where they came from.” Magnus noted softly.  
Íþró nodded and looked back at the gravestone. “She fought in countless battles. She slew beasts bigger than mountains and mightier than the ocean’s waves. She took on armies and warriors, and bested them all. But most of all, she was known as having a heart of gold. She cared for every one of us, and wanted nothing more than to care for those she loved. She was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” His smile faded as the memories of his wife flooded his mind, a melancholic nostalgia taking over. He sighed softly, more tears rolling down his cheeks. “And I miss her every day.”  
Magnus hugged his father tighter, his own face becoming stained with new tears.  
Silence once again took over. The candlelight flickered in the wind.

Íþró gently hugged his son back.  
“Magnus, I’m sorry.” He finally said.  
Magnus looked up in surprise. His father rarely used his actual name.  
“I’m sorry for not being there for you as much as I should have. I’m sorry for making you feel like you shouldn’t cry.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t as strong as I should be. I wasn’t strong for you.”  
“I don’t understand, Pabbi. How am I strong?” Magnus asked.  
Íþró gave his son a sad smile. “Because you acknowledged that you missed her. You cried when you felt like it. You allowed yourself to grieve, and to remember her. You’ve cared for her grave.” He said, gesturing to the stones. “That takes a lot of strength to do. To be honest with how you feel.” He looked down, his face clouded with shame. “I…wasn’t strong enough to handle what happened. I stayed away because everything here reminded me of her. I ran away from what hurt me rather than confront it and accept it. I didn’t let myself grieve. And that only hurt myself and you. You needed me and I wasn’t there for you.” He said, his voice growing choked with tears. He hugged his son tighter. “I’m so sorry, _litla_. I shouldn’t have left for so long.”  
Magnus paused, then hugged Íþró back, giving his father a warm smile. “It’s okay, Pabbi. I forgive you.” He said.  
Íþró stopped as he processed his son’s response. He had to hold himself back from exclaiming about how easily his son forgave him. Forgave him for deliberately not returning home, for not being there for him. He didn’t understand how he wasn’t angry.  
“I…” he started to say.  
“I’m just glad you’re here now. We both miss mamma, and we can miss her together now.” Said Magnus, before turning his eyes towards the grave. “I feel better coming here, because I can be with her and remember her.”  
Íþró’s mouth shut. Another tear rolled down his face. He never failed to be amazed at how mature and understanding his son could be. He hugged his son, his own eyes turning towards the grave. A pain still existed in his heart, but he could feel it ebb away slowly as he continued to allow himself to _feel_ his emotions and grief. It hurt, yet felt cathartic. He thought of his wife’s smile, and how she would smell of freshly baked bread in the morning. He thought of how she’d occasionally tickle his nose with a clover if he fell asleep in the yard. He thought of how her golden hair shone in the sun. A warmth filled his heart where the pain began to fade. More tears fell from his eyes. He thought of her singing voice.

Slowly, Íþró began to hum. The tune was one that Bríana used to sing, an ancient song she said was passed down from generation to generation. It was one of his favorites, and one that he remembered Bríana used to sing to Magnus. It started quiet and sad, and grew as he continued. Magnus trembled slightly as he held his father tighter, the memories of his mother’s lullabies growing fresh once more in his mind, whimpering at the welling sadness in his heart.  
“It’s okay, _litla_ ¸ it’s okay. I’m here.” Said Íþró soothingly, as he stroked his son’s hair.  
Magnus burrowed his face once more into his father’s chestplate and cried, his cries interrupted by the occasional hiccup.  
“It’s okay, Maggi. Let it out. I’m here. I’m here.” Íþró continued. “ _And I’m going to make sure I’m here more. Somehow, I’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure I’m here for you._ ” He thought to himself.  
Magnus sobbed and looked up at his father, his face streaked with tears. He hiccupped and sniffled, resting his chin against Íþró’s side. “I love you, Pabbi.” He said tearfully.  
Íþró leaned down and kissed the top of his son’s head, a few of his own tears wetting Magnus’ curly blonde locks. “I love you too, Maggi.” He said quietly.  
Íþró gently rocked his son back and forth as he continued to hum, his song punctuated with a few sobs and hiccups from Magnus.

\--

As the candle finally burnt itself out, Íþró looked down at his son. Magnus had tuckered out a while ago, falling asleep on his father’s lap. His little chest rose and fell, his breathing interrupted by the occasional hiccup.  
Carefully, Íþró rose to his feet, cradling his slumbering son in his arms. He gave one last look at his wife’s grave.  
“Goodnight, _Elskan_. We both love you so much.” He said quietly.  
With one last glance at the gravestone, Íþró turned and walked towards the staircase.  
He looked down at Magnus, who still slept deeply. He smiled at him affectionately. He planted a kiss on his son’s forehead. Magnus stirred momentarily, before growing still once more.  
With a sigh, Íþró looked up once more at the stairs. As he climbed the crumbling steps, he thought over how he’d approach the idea to the council. That he needed to return home more often for a while, to take care of his son and for both to heal. It’d be a hard sell: the world had only grown more dangerous and strife-filled over the last year. He was needed. Really, he had no room to journey back and forth as often as he thought he’d need to.  
But he’d make it work. He needed to.  
For his son’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this flashback to Magnus/Sportacus's childhood! I know it's a little sad, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
